


Always the Mountain

by EKthered



Category: The Order: 1886
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Fluff, Game Spoilers, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-12
Updated: 2015-03-12
Packaged: 2018-03-17 13:37:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3531269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EKthered/pseuds/EKthered
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Galahad is a synthesis of two contradictory concepts - an ancient indomitable mountain watching over his countrymen, and the soft, gently diffusing curl of woodsmoke that rises into the night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Always the Mountain

Galahad is a synthesis of two contradictory concepts - an ancient indomitable mountain watching over his countrymen, and the soft, gently diffusing curl of wood-smoke that rises into the night. 

In the field he is unyielding, the grizzled mountain. He is mostly unchanged through all the years you have known him.  Despite the lines deepening his face, his body is an oiled machine. He waits… waits… movement, a blade leaves its first sheath and finds another, then returns soundlessly to its home, blood and all. His eyes still find his marks and his aim is true. Half breeds fall beneath him, one after another, their unholy faces shattering against cobble stone ground. He is a force of nature, always reliable and unrelenting.

Even at rest he is an immovable and thick creature. The clip-clops of the carriage’s horsefeet and patter of rain always lulls weary knights after battle. Galahad’s hard lines and muscle soften in sleep, arms crossed and chin dipping to the armor over his chest. His flank is a warm hard wall against your side, stable and sure. The rain washes away the sour smells of blood and sweat and your own eyelids droop – the carriage is full of the slow and deep breaths of your brothers and sisters, a moment of peace after a long and painful mission.

But for all his physical presence, he is also so bloody untouchable sometimes, unknowable, a wisp of smoke you reach for but cannot gasp, swirling around your fingers. In the knight quarters after supper on days you aren’t working, you often play cards or speak of new technologies or books, your fellow knights gathered around the roaring hearth to burn the dank cold out of your bones. Sometimes he joins you. He’s quiet although actively listening to all around him, a glass of scotch in one hand and a newspaper in another. The comradery of the Order is palpable then, a living thing that curls into your guts and sustains you in a way the blackwater does not, cannot. He might comment on conversation, only a few words but the wit and intelligence compacted into the thought is enough to fill your mind with questions, or laugh roughly as you sputter over your drinks. 

He is the perfect fusion of these elements with his team - his eyes tracking Perceval like a hound, eager to hear his mentor’s next words or commands. He sees what needs to be done, he executes. A perfect soldier. Or, he was.

When Perceval died, something changed in him - the woodsmoke just - drifted away into the night with the plumes of burning Agamemnon. His eyes grew dark with grief. The mountain remained and it trembled with devastating loss.  From across the round table you watch him combat with the Order’s leader and you physically ache for him.

And then you are called away, your own team dispatched to battle half breeds in the muck of the country roads. Your heart turns to stone at the news of his betrayal to the Order and subsequent escape. When you return, the halls feel emptier and the nights in common rooms by the fire are cold no matter how many logs you and your fellows cast to the hearth. You realize you may never see him again.

She had never said anything to anyone about her personal experience, but the quiet bubbling rage Isi struggled to restrain colored her words, her movements - covered her eyes in a film of darkness. You wonder if he found something and had a reason to move himself to the rebel’s cause. Such thoughts were heresy, and you fear to say them aloud, lest Isabeau D’argyll find you and remind you “what he has done.”

Secretly, you hope so much he is alive, and that there will come a time when you can reach for the words you so terribly  _need;_  the ones that explain why he’s done what he’s done. And they will soothe you, and you’ll know he is who he always was - the protector of honorable men.

You hope.

 


End file.
